Adlet began moving from city to city.
There was no ceremony to it. No grand departure.
Just a steady rhythm: arrive, register, read the board, choose a mission, leave.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Each settlement followed the same pattern—sandstone walls, watchtowers scanning the horizon, Protectors coming and going with the weary vigilance of people who knew the land could turn hostile without warning. Adlet learned the names of towns quickly, though many blurred together in his memory. What mattered wasn't their architecture or markets.
It was what waited beyond their walls.
Apex after Apex fell.
Some were crude brutes that relied on raw power. Others were cunning, territorial, vicious in short bursts of violence. Rank 3s became routine. Rank 4s demanded attention, strategy, patience—but none were insurmountable.
With every mission, Adlet refined himself.
He rarely relied on overwhelming force now. The Scarab's horn remained decisive, but no longer dominant. Instead, the green Aura wrapped around him more often—subtle, ever-present, sharpening his perception and loosening his movement.
His body learned to move between attacks rather than against them.
Dodges grew tighter. Steps grew quieter. He began to feel openings before they appeared—tiny shifts in weight, brief hesitations, a breath drawn half a second too late. Where once he had forced advantages through power, he now slipped into them.
The desert became his training ground.
He ran across arid plains dotted with stubborn vegetation—low shrubs with hardened leaves, twisted trees that clung to the soil like anchors against the wind. The land was harsh, but not empty. Life persisted here by adapting, by refusing to waste motion or energy.
So did Adlet.
By the time a full month had passed, he no longer thought consciously about activating the green Aura. It answered instinctively, reinforcing muscles, sharpening reflexes, aligning his movements with intention rather than effort.
He felt… lighter.
Freer.
And then, one evening, the silhouette of a larger city rose before him.
Savar.
It stood between the wide flow of the Vhal River and the rocky boundary of the world itself—a natural choke point where trade routes converged before daring deeper paths into the desert. Thick walls enclosed the city, taller and broader than those of other cities, reinforced to withstand both Apex assaults and the wear of time.
Caravans crowded the outer roads.
Long lines of pack beasts rested under cloth canopies. Merchants argued loudly over prices, guards inspected loads with tired professionalism, and Protectors moved through it all like living weapons—alert, armed, and accustomed to danger.
This place was different.
Savar wasn't merely surviving the desert.
It was challenging it.
Adlet made his way through the gates and headed straight for the Protector Guild.
The building was large, stone foundations layered with newer expansions, as if the city had grown around it. Inside, the atmosphere was busy and loud—far more active than in smaller towns. Protectors gathered in groups, merchants pressed forward with contracts in hand, voices overlapped in negotiations and complaints.
Escort missions dominated the boards here.
Caravan protection. Long-range travel. Multi-day routes through unstable territory.
Important work—but not what Adlet was looking for.
Those missions were reserved for Confirmed Protectors or organized groups. Apprentices clustered together near them, whispering plans, calculating risks.
Adlet walked past without slowing.
His eyes searched higher.
Extermination postings.
There were several.
And not Rank 3.
Rank 4.
His gaze stopped on one in particular.
Extermination Request — Rank 4
Target: Dominator Scorpion
Location: Trade Route South-East of Savar
Threat Level: Severe
Status: Unresolved — Multiple Route Deviations Reported
A Dominator Scorpion.
Adlet removed the posting and turned toward the counter.
The guild officer behind it was in his forties, weathered by years of desert wind, his expression sharpening slightly when Adlet presented the mission slip along with his bronze insignia.
"There's a lot of activity here," Adlet remarked after the formalities, glancing around the bustling hall.
The man nodded. "Of course. This is Savar. The furthest advanced city in the habitable zone."
He leaned back slightly, eyes assessing Adlet with professional curiosity.
"We're a commercial hub, but also a bulwark. Beyond us lies the second half of the Horus Desert."
Adlet looked up. "The second half?"
"The Sand Graveyard," the man said. "Completely inhospitable. No permanent settlements. No civilian routes."
Adlet felt a faint stir of interest. "And people still go there?"
The officer gestured toward a board mounted behind the counter.
"Only the elite. Access to missions in the Sand Graveyard is restricted."
Adlet turned.
His breath caught.
A ranking board.
Ten names, etched into polished stone.
He scanned them quickly.
His name wasn't there.
But two others were.
Rank 9 — Gillan Horus
Rank 6 — Linoa Neraid
Adlet stared.
Even here.
They hadn't wasted a single moment.
A slow, sharp spark ignited in his chest—not frustration, not envy.
Motivation.
"So that's how it works," he murmured.
The officer followed his gaze. "Top ten earn clearance for exclusive missions. Higher risk. Higher reward."
Adlet turned back to him, eyes steady.
"Then this city will suit me."
The man studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "The Dominator Scorpion's been nesting near the south-eastern trade road. Heavy armor. Intelligent."
"Good," Adlet replied.
He turned away, the mission slip secured, the ranking board burned into his mind.
Gillan. Linoa.
Top ten.
The Sand Graveyard.
As he stepped back into the streets of Savar, caravans moving around him like blood through arteries, Adlet felt something settle into place.
This city wasn't just another stop.
It was a threshold.
A proving ground.
And he intended to carve his way forward—one Apex at a time.
The desert had tested him.
Now it would answer him.